


Sam Winchester: The Birthday Matchmaker

by kikowest



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday Cake, Dating, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Matchmaking, Mild Sexual Content, POV Female Character, Romance, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 09:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14734760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kikowest/pseuds/kikowest
Summary: I was working under the assumption that Dean’s definition of a ‘date’ involved a lot of booze, maybe a 2AM burger, and the faint scent of regret in the morning.





	Sam Winchester: The Birthday Matchmaker

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr in 2014 for fun and not re-edited. Enjoy!

The amount of skepticism on Dean Winchester’s face was really taking the “fun” out of the funfetti icing I was globbing onto the lopsided, vanilla creation in front of me. It was his brother’s birthday cake, and Dean wasn’t doing Sam any favors by distracting me. Besides, I hadn’t asked to play some weirdo, Winchester version of “Never Have I Ever.” If he was surprised, that was all on him. 

“You’re a fuckin’ liar,” said Dean. Perched on the kitchen counter, it was impossible to avoid him. He kept trying to stick his fingers into the icing jar. It earned him a slap with the wooden spatula. “Shit. Ow!”

“Get your dirty paws outta there. Is this your cake? No. It is not,” I snapped. “And I’m not lying.”

“But you’re, you know…” He made an wobbly circle with his free hand. “Decently attractive. I mean, you don’t look like Mrs. Potato Head or somethin’.”

“Well, thanks. You sure do know how to make a girl feel pretty, Dean.”

“You know what I mean!” Dean replied -- unrelenting. “Someone…  _ Someone _ must have takin’ ya’ out. Dinner and a movie? Heavy petting in the backseat?” He frowned. “You’ve been on a date before. How old are you again?”

I rolled my eyes. “Old enough. And I don’t think a handy in a WalMart parking lot counts as a date.”

“Jesus. That’s just sad,” said Dean.

He looked like he meant it, too, which I found both interesting and annoying. The last person on Earth I wanted to pity my sexual history was Dean Winchester. And I was working under the assumption that Dean’s definition of a “date” involved a lot of booze, maybe a 2AM burger, and the faint scent of regret in the morning. That was basically the propositioned he gave me the first time we met, and I hadn’t even been dolled up. Unless Dean counted being covered in blood and excrement as “dolled up.”

He probably did.

“Well, I was kind of nerdy and shy in high school,” I explained. “Dating wasn’t a priority. Then I got into hunting, which is a whole different kettle of fish. I mean, _ you _ know. It’s kind of a gamble trying to date somebody when they could kick the bucket the next day. Plus, who has time?”

“What happened to Mitch?” asked Dean. “You were all shackin’ up for a while there.”

Dean was right, though it was a sore subject. Mitch was a talented hunter along the east coast. We did “shack up,” and I liked having someone I could rely on. But I wouldn’t have called it a romantic relationship. More of a relationship of convenience. In the end, Mitch didn’t like how keen I was to mix with the Winchesters, and I got the impression that the feeling was mutual.

The more invested I became, the longer and bigger the arguments. Meeting up with Sam was slamming doors. Dean calling in a favor was being left on a dark back road with nothing but a pack of gum. God forbid Castiel show his face. Hell, Mitch didn’t like to use Bobby as a contact, which I thought that was just poor business sense.

It wasn’t even a fair fight from the beginning, though. Sam and Dean had a lot of baggage, but they stuck like glue. They _ liked  _ people -- wanted to help. It wasn’t just the killing or the adrenaline rush. Their network wasn’t just a bunch of expendable faces -- they were friends and family. That resonated with me. I wanted to be a part of it.

Which was why, months later, I was making Sam the world’s most depressing funfetti cake and telling Dean I’d never been on a real date.

“Yeah, but that wasn’t  _ dating _ . That was me realizing I was lonely and not a kid anymore,” I said. “You get out of your early twenties and realize you don’t know jack. Sometimes the only thing you can think to do is fall back on all the stuff people told you that you  _ should _ do -- get married, have kids. Finally figure out how to manage my credit score. I don’t know.”

“That’s bullshit,” said Dean. He had a bit of icing on his nose. Must have swiped it when I wasn’t looking. “I’m over thirty and I sure as hell don’t know what my credit score is.” Dean gave a carefree shrug. “But I’m like, eleven different people on paper, so there’s also that.”

It was easy to laugh. Especially when he kept trying to wipe off the pilfered icing and missing it every time.

“Yeah, well. I’m just sayin’,” I said.

“Hey!”

Dean was so loud, I actually jumped. He had that sly look he only got when he was particularly proud of himself -- thought he was being clever. Big old peacock strutting his stuff. I narrowed my eyes.

“ _ I’ll  _ take ya’ out,” he said.

“What? No. Dean, I don’t want to go to some sleazy dive bar, okay?” I sighed.

That was when Sam showed his proclivity towards good timing. We’d left him fiddling on his laptop in the Men of Letters library an hour ago -- one hand swirling on the touchpad and the other absentmindedly buried in a bowl of popcorn. He must have ran out of popcorn, because he had the bowl with him.

“Sleazy dive bar?” Sam asked, having only caught the tail end of the conversation. “Who’s goin’ to a sleazy dive bar?”

“Not me,” I said.

“I won’t take ya’ to a fuckin’ dive bar!” retorted Dean. “Christ. Just tell me what kinda date you want, and I’ll make it happen.”

“Wait. You two are goin’ on a date?” asked Sam. He’d almost immediately started chuckling. Then to me he added, “Did you lose a bet or something?”

“Ha-ha. Shut up,” said Dean.

“I told Dean I’d never been on an actual date, and he offered,” I explained.

The little hop Sam did to perch on the other side of the counter was unnecessary. His long legs still almost touched the ground. When Sam fished for some icing straight off the spatula, I let him -- Dean’s glare of indignation burning a hole in the side of my head.

“What would you do?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to do anything fancy. Maybe get dinner at the diner in town. Catch a movie. Maybe go for milkshakes? In bed by like, ten.”

“Well, gee golly! Sure you don’t wanna scoot on down to the sock hop, too?” teased Dean. He scoffed. “You get all your date ideas from  _ Happy Days _ ?”

“Don’t you make fun of me!” I snapped. “If you want to take me out, this is what I want. These are my reasonably low expectations. Take it or leave it.”

“Fine, fine. Name a time, Sandra Dee. Let’s do this.”

“Well, we can’t go tomorrow. We got Sam’s birthday!” I said, giving Sam’s face a good-natured pat. To his credit, he didn’t pull away. Just scrunched up his nose and suffered through the forced affection. “We’re makin’ history, boys. We’re righting a wrong.” Sam sniggered quietly. “We’re giving Sam his first funfetti cake, because what kinda grown-ass man has never had a funfetti cake before?”

Dean rubbed his hands together -- eyes on the prize. Sure, he preferred pie, but he wasn’t going to turn down a piece of birthday cake. It was also probably safe to assume that Dean had never had a funfetti cake, either.

_ Mental note for January _ , I thought.  _ Gunna help keep Betty Crocker in business. _

“Gotta lot of big plans for your birthday, Sammy,” warned Dean. “We’ll keep part of ‘em for when Charlie gets here on Friday, but it’s gunna be a good time!”

If you hadn’t been watching closely, it’d have been easy to miss the tiny flicker of apprehension that tweaked Sam’s mouth. There,and then gone in a flash. Dean definitely missed it. He was still gunning for icing. I was done anyway, so I gave him the spatula without complaint.

“Uh. Yeah… Great,” said Sam. He cleared his throat. “Actually… I mean, if you want to… You could go ahead and go. Uh. On the date. Or whatever.”

“Huh?” Dean grunted around the top of the spatula.

“We’re not gunna leave you alone on your birthday, Sam,” I said. “I made the cake! And I have a butt-load of candles. It’s gunna be a fire hazard. I know how much you guys like to light things on fire.”

You could almost see the light bulb pop up over the top of Sam’s head. He made a few pacifying gestures. Sam’s hands always got super animated when he was excited -- limbs flopping around like a big, gangly puppy.

“Well, we can… We can do that in the morning!” said Sam. Whatever idea had crossed his mind, it was clearly catching on. “That could be fun, right? I don’t really need a big party or anything, guys. Actually, I kind of like the idea of having a night to myself. You know, maybe get some research done?”

“Really, man? That sounds boring as shit,” said Dean. “No way.”

“I’m not joking. It’d actually be kind of a nice present,” said Sam. “I mean, let’s face it. We don’t have a very good track record with birthdays, anyway. And we’re always so  _ go-go-go _ . Maybe I just want to sit down. Enjoy the silence. And Dean, when was the last time you went out and just had fun? 1995?” Dean made a face, trying to decide if his brother was right or not. “Go. Have fun!”

“I don’t know…” I mumbled.

“You don’t have to stay out all night. Come back whenever and you can sing me ‘Happy Birthday’ again. We’ll even, uh…” Sam was reaching for something to compel Dean. I could tell. “We’ll drink our way through the liquor cabinet. And I won’t complain about whatever you decide to do when Charlie gets here.”

Dean and I traded thoughtful glances. Not a bit of Sam didn’t seem sincere. And if it was what he wanted…

“Okay, but I wanna see some leg,” Dean told me. I glared at him as he skimmed my outfit. Sure, I was in sweatpants and covered in cake mix, but I didn’t think I looked  _ that _ bad. “Hair, make-up. Whole shebang. It’s a date.”

“Deal,” I agreed, prompting Dean into a firm handshake. Then to Sam I added, “I hope you realize I’m doing this for you. Happy Birthday.”

“Best birthday ever,” said Sam.

 

And he whistled all the way out of the kitchen.

...

 

It felt weird getting plucked and painted for the evening. I almost didn’t bother. Part of me expected Dean to show up in his usual fare of ripped jeans and old t-shirt anyway, so I was surprised to find him standing at my bedroom door wearing a moss green button-up tucked carefully into dark wash denim. He looked like a J Crew catalog -- hair tousled and sleeves rolled to his elbows. I gaped at him a moment.

Dean cleared his throat, filling the empty space. I shut the door behind me with a loud snap.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

“Uh. Yeah,” I said. When he offered to help me shrug on my pea jacket, I let him.

“You look nice,” said Dean.

That seemed generous. To fulfill Dean’s request, I’d fished an old cocktail dress out of the bottom of my suitcase. It was navy, with a boat neck -- plain, conservative, boring. I rarely used it. Maybe for gigs that required office work or a late night party. Those were few and far between. But it met Dean’s requirement to “show some leg,” and I had a pair of leopard print heels that were a little flashy. I caught him staring at them when I turned. Still, I felt dowdy next to Dean.

“Thanks. You look, uh, handsome,” I stammered.

Well, we were certainly fulfilling the awkward quota for a first date. If Dean was nervous, though, he was hiding it better than me. When we tromped down to the main room, he took the last couple stairs two at a time and grinned as I shuffled to catch up.

Since we had to pass through, we got a chance to check on Sam before we left. He’d been hard at work most of the afternoon-- dragging furniture around and chasing Dean out of the kitchen. Now we could view his masterpiece.

Sam clearly planned to spend the rest of the evening completely at his leisure. He’d hooked up a large TV and made a nest out of chairs and tables. A stack of DVDs sat on one side, and food on the other. There were large, hardback books -- borrowed from the local library -- and his laptop was rigged for easy multitasking. Sam sat in the middle, drinking organic beer and eating the birthday cake we’d had for breakfast.

“Dude. Kale chips?” asked Dean, inspecting one of the many bags.

“Dude. It’s my birthday. And they’re good,” Sam replied defensively. When he saw me, however, his eyebrows shot into his hairline. “Wow. Hey, look at you! You guys leavin’?”

“Yeah,” I said, leaning down to give an awkward, one arm hug. “But remember… this is  _ your  _ present. If you want company, just call. We’ll come back.”

“Don’t worry. I think I’ll be fine,” said Sam.

He wasn’t even looking when we both told him “Happy Birthday” again and started out the door. Just one, half-hearted wave with his eyes glued to the computer screen. The sound of a chip bag being opened followed us out.

“Is it just me, or is he way too into gettin’ rid of us for a night?” asked Dean once we were piled inside Dean’s Baby, the Chevy Impala.

“I dunno. I kind of get it. Sometimes it’s nice just to have some time by yourself,” I said. “Do whatever you want. No judgement. No explanations.”

Dean grunted noncommittally, starting the car. It hadn’t occurred to me, and probably not Sam either, that maybe Dean’s feelings were a little hurt. It’d just been the two of them for so long. I’d gotten most of the story over late night tequila shots and the occasional stake-out, so I had a hazy understanding. Every birthday Dean celebrated with Sam was probably a loaded occasion. A living testament to the love he bore his brother -- another year he kept them both safe and fed. The corners of Dean’s mouth turned down while he fiddled with the radio.

“I got ya’ somethin’. You know, for our date,” I said, wanting to snuff out that little spark of unhappiness before it caught fire.

I wasn’t lying, though. I really did have something. Felt a little self conscious about it -- wondered if it was a good idea -- but too late now. When Dean glanced over, brows furrowed, he was met with a carefully labeled cassette tape. A chuckle escaped him before he could tamp it down.

“I don’t wanna listen to any of your angry chick music,” he said.

“It’s not ‘angry chick music,’” I said. “Put it in.” His fingers ran the ridged before shoving it into the tape slot. “I mean, Justin Bieber and One Direction doesn’t count as angry chick music, right?”

The look on Dean’s face was priceless -- wide-eyed, rigid -- before the beginning strains of Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode” came pelting out of Baby’s speakers. Then he began to laugh -- head thrown back and shoulders shaking. Dean laughed so long that The Coasters picked up where Chuck left off and started telling us all about “Charlie Brown.”

“Just settin’ the mood,” I said innocently.

“Oh. That it?” said Dean. It got him to put the car in gear, melancholy lifting as he started to put Baby through her paces.  “Alright, smartass. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

There wasn’t a whole lot to Lebanon, Kansas, so we had to take Route 36 towards Smith Center. Still not a very big town, but they had a movie theater and basic amenities. At five o'clock on a Thursday, though, it was as dead as a door-nail. The sour faced young man at the ticket counter stared at us suspiciously while Dean paid for our tickets.

We’d squabbled over the movie selection and ended up in an equally empty, unpopular drama starring John Cusack. We figured that if we couldn’t agree, we might as well both be unhappy. Besides, it was either that or some kind of animated feature about fruit.

Capitalizing on the desolation, Dean ran to claim the chairs smack in the middle of the theater -- dropping popcorn all over the place. I followed at a more sedate pace. Heels didn’t really lend to hopping rows of candy coated seat backs, anyway.

“You think it’ll just be us?” asked Dean around a mouthful of popcorn once we’d settled in.

“God, I hope so,” I replied.

“Because we’re gunna shit on this movie the whole time, right?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Awesome.”

We both held our breath when someone meandered in, but by the time the lights dimmed and the previews started there wasn’t a single other occupied seat. Dean propped up his legs and waggled his eyebrows at me in the dark.

“No one here to watch us make out,” he said.

“Oh, shut up,” I replied.

Dean was actually my favorite kind of movie partner. He always had a quick comment, but he also knew when to shut up. Halfway through, we had to begrudgingly admit we didn’t hate the film as much as we thought we would. It had enough funny bits to make us laugh, and enough plot to be interesting. When the credits finally rolled, we ambled out of the theater, sipping out of the same gigantic soda cup and debating which Cusack movie we thought was  _ actually _ the worst.

“I wanted my money back on  _ 2012 _ ,” I said. “But I liked _ Must Love Dogs _ .”

“You are fuckin’ kidding me.  _ Must Love Dogs _ ? At least things exploded in  _ 2012 _ !” argued Dean.

“They should have died a billion times! There’s no way that family would have made it onto that ship!”

“Who cares! I mean, how realistic do you expect it to be?” retorted Dean. “Your expectations for the apocalypse are too damn high.”

“And how are your’s  _ not _ ?” I asked, incredulous.

“Guess I watch movies to escape, not see the shit I deal with day to day,” said Dean. “Also, you know… explosions.” He mimed one -- sound effects and all. “Love me some pyrotechnics!”

“So, as long as something blows up, you’re happy?”

The straw squeaked as he drained the last of the soda water, and then pitched the cup in the trash. It was just going on seven thirty when we stepped out into the parking lot. The sky was already a deep, rosy red and a brisk breeze had picked up. I pulled my coat tighter, though May in Kansas was definitely an improvement over the last time I’d been out in December.

“I’m a simple man, with simple needs,” Dean replied. I laughed, but he must have noticed my teeth chatter. In one smooth motion, he pulled me under the wing of his leather jacket. I had to wrap my arm around him to sync our steps -- his long ones with my short, stumbly stride. “Come ‘ere. You look like one of those shaky little rat dogs.”

“Do not,” I mumbled, but he was probably right.

Besides, Dean ran warm like a big, burly furnace. With everything washed in twilight, it felt like standing next to a sunbeam. Not a bit of him didn’t burn bright -- tips of his hair and down the ridge of his nose. His smile brought out all the laugh lines around his mouth, the tiny wrinkles beside his eyes. Deep embers at the edge of a fire. Even his jacket smelled like gunpowder and ash. It made me feel surprisingly sentimental -- the heat of him. 

“Where to next?” asked Dean. His keys jingled in his other hand. “Food?”

“Food,” I parroted.

…

 

It’s a scientific fact that milkshakes taste way better inside an old muscle car, driven by a hot guy, going at least twenty miles over the speed limit down back roads. Dean had already finished his treat, powering through a brain freeze, but I was savoring mine. The night had been going so well. While I’d figured I’d have a decent time, I hadn’t really counted on how easy it was to be with Dean.  _ Just  _ with Dean.

For all of his self-deprecation, there was no denying that Dean was clever, uproariously funny, and a natural storyteller. We’d been driving around aimlessly -- swapping tall tales and asking each other ridiculous questions. The Impala’s dashboard said it was close to eleven, so we’d lost track of time somewhere between getting a meal and the first exploratory turn off Route 281.

I hoped Sam was okay back at the bunker, but Sam was a big boy. Another year older, even. He’d promised he’d call if he got bored, and there was nothing but radio silence from Lebanon. Part of me also hoped the reason Dean hadn’t suggested we head back was because he was having a good time, too. Maybe found me as funny, cute, and clever as I did him.

“Out of anything… ANYTHING… you’re goin’ with Kelpie?” asked Dean. He gave me a judgemental glance. “Really? A _ Kelpie _ ?”

_ Well, so much for that _ , I thought. At least I still had a half inch of milkshake left. I had that going for me.

“Well, have you ever seen a Kelpie? I think it’d be cool,” I said. “My second pick is the Gashadokuro. How metal is a giant, roaming skeleton that bites people’s heads off?”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Whatever. You said you wanted to see a fish panther.”

“An  _ underwater panther _ . Don’t you know that story? It’s a giant fuckin’ panther monster with dagger spines. They fight Thunderbirds!” said Dean. “That’s fuckin’ awesome, and you know it!”

I shrugged, but couldn’t disagree. I was also suddenly way more interested in where we were going. Dean had turned off the main road and was driving past newly plowed fields. Silos rose in the distance -- sleeping giants waiting for the next harvest season. Groves of trees were starting to encroach upon the drainage ditches. I turned to Dean, curiosity taking over.

“You know where we’re goin’, Dean?” I asked.

“It’s a surprise,” Dean replied. “Dig deep. Have some patience.”

Didn’t have to wait long. One more bend and the road opened up again. Instead of being flat, never-ending plains, though, it was a simple clearing. Probably an old watering hole for cattle. Headlights bounced off of a couple dilapidated structures, all of them rotted down to the beams. Dean parked in front of the placid, dark water of a below level pond. He had that cat-that-got-the-cream smile splayed across his face.

“Did you just take me to a good, ol’ fashioned make-out point?” I asked, starting to laugh.

“Real deal, Baby. I asked that kid at Wendy’s,” Dean replied.

“You’re lucky we didn’t end up at some meth lab!”

“I know, right?”

It was probably a gamble getting out of the car. Dean left the stereo playing and headlights on, which gave traipsing across the uneven, used condom, Bud Light littered ground a grungy carnival feel. The circle of trees made it seem very secluded, though. I could see how it’d be pretty once all the leaves filled in, and maybe some of the wildflowers and weeds started to bloom. Not that the local teens cared about that. Dean and I walked a half circle before re-joining in the center -- both grinning like idiots.

“God. This is fuckin’ disgusting, Dean,” I said, sidestepping some latex.  “Aaand... I love it. Another thing crossed off my bucket list.”

“What can I say? I know how to please the ladies,” said Dean.

He looked too goofy with that gigawatt smile. Standing in the headlines, half his face was in shadow -- the lean lines of his body thrown up into the treeline. The tape deck had looped back around to “The Twist,” which was all the encouragement Dean needed. I’d never seen him dance before. He really wasn’t half bad, though we were both from generations that considering jumping in place the same as dancing. So, my expectations could have been sort of low.

“You know how to lindy hop, old man?” I asked.  

“Lindy  _ what _ ? Fuck no,” Dean replied. He reached for my hand. “But I can do the twist! Come on, Sandra Dee! Dance so you don’t get cold!”

There was no way that was going to happen with Dean around. I couldn’t say “no.” We danced with little to no regard for our own personal safety -- freewheeling in front of the Impala like rag dolls.  But it was exciting, and I liked how Dean laughed at all his bad attempts to dip me. By the time the song petered out, I’d thrown my coat over the car hood. I’d gotten so used to blood pumping from fear that the exhilaration of just dancing made me light headed, reeling into Dean in a fit of giggles.

He took the opportunity to do a clumsy waltz, but it was short lived. I kept tripping over gravel in my high heeled shoes. A two minute song had left us panting -- hooked together to stay standing. I watched his eyes try to find a place to settle, eventually landing on my lips. Suddenly, the sound of spring bugs seemed louder than the radio.

We’d stitched wounds and wiped blood, fallen into a drunk puddle and touched skin the same way you might touch walls, doors, a stereo knob. This was a different kind of physical intimacy. An odd mixture of respect and desire. My hand between his shoulder blades, Dean’s fingers wisping the nape of my neck. Maybe it was inevitable. How his head dipped, reeling me in.

The only place to go, the only reasonable expression of the next thought, is to kiss.

It started simply. Chaste was not how I’d pictured a kiss with Dean. He always struck me as all teeth and fervor. But his lips stayed just slightly chapped and warm -- tasting like chocolate milkshake -- until I pressed into his shadow. I was sure he could feel my pulse pounding against my breastbone. Emboldened, Dean’s fingers flexed -- came alive as our lips crashed together again.  _ There _ was the teeth, there was the fervor.

We’d gotten so worked up kissing in the grungy little clearing that we didn’t hear the first  _ whoop whoop  _ of the police siren. Someone must have noticed the glint of Dean’s headlights through the trees and called it in.

“Are you kidding me?” Dean panted, just barely able to pull himself away.

“It’s the fuzz! Run!” I giggled -- punch drunk off Dean.

We went careening back to the car, though. It seemed like more fun than waiting around to explain. Dean even tried to do a jaunty hip slide towards the driver’s side of the Impala, and ended up halfway on his butt. At least he grabbed my coat on his trip down.

“Fuck! Too old for that!” he grunted, still laughing.

Doors slammed. It would have been our luck for Baby to stall, but she started right up and Dean threw her in reverse. We were out of there in two seconds flat.

“Damn kids,” the cops probably grumbled. When really it was two monster hunters on a sugar high, just howling at the moon.

…

 

Midnight. The bunker was quiet. No angry Sam waiting in the garage, no voicemails on either of our phones. Dean and I traded somewhat a guilty glance, though, as he cut the engine.

“You think Sam’s mad?” I asked.

“Nah. I doubt it,” said Dean. He cleared his throat.

“Well, he can feel good about being right, I guess,” I said. “We  _ should _ do this more often.”

“The havin’ fun part? Or the date part?” asked Dean.

There was that wobbly, sunbeam smile again. It felt like we were standing right on the cusp of something a little dangerous, but a lot of exciting. That was a good mixture for a hunter. I found myself blushing right down to my toes.

“Both.”

That was enough for Dean. No more hesitance when he leaned in. This was a different kind of kiss. Slow and steady, just barely a graze of teeth. We stayed like that for a moment before acknowledging that  _ maybe  _ we should go check on Sam before spending the rest of the night making out like horny teenagers.

There wasn’t any need to look far, though. Dean checked in the library first, just out of force of habit, but Sam was right where we’d left him. In the main room, but with  _ The Blue Planet _ title screen on infinite loop. Sam hadn’t even noticed when we came in. He was too busy being unconscious -- face down and drooling on the couch. His cheek was plastered to a cushion. More than half the funfetti cake had been eaten, and he’d passed out on four books. It looked uncomfortable, but Sam didn’t even twitch.

“Aw. Look at that. All tuckered out from his nerd night,” said Dean. He stared at his brother fondly.

“Should we wake him up?” I whispered.

“Nah. Let ‘im sleep. Been a long day.” But he fished his phone out of his pocket to take a couple pictures, chuckling quietly. “He used to sleep with his butt up in the air when he was a kid, too.”

“Dean!” I hissed.

“What?”

Nothing was going to deter a big brother from blackmail. I grabbed one of the throw blankets off the nearest chair, an awful tartan number, and gently covered Sam up to the armpits. That’s as far as it would go, even when he was all crunched up.

“Happy Birthday, Sam,” I said, trying to smooth some of the hair out of his face. There was just too much, though. It was a lost cause.

For one brief beat, I really thought Dean was going to lean over the back of the couch and give Sam a peck on the top of his large, shaggy head. As weird as it would have been, he just seemed so tickled by the whole thing -- glad to be home and glad Sam had enjoyed himself.

But then I realized he was eyeing the extra six pack of beer next to Sam’s limp arm. Typical.

“You mind if we take this? No. Okay. Happy Birthday, Buddy,” Dean whispered. The bottled clicked together as he lifted.

I probably should have discouraged him, but the beer looked pretty good. The most I could manage was a slow shake of the head, though I followed Dean as he turned off the TV and switched off the lights. Somehow in the dark he was still able to find my hand.

“What now, Winchester?” I asked. “Is this date over?”

“Well, we skipped somethin’. We should have been shit-faced and makin’ out in the back of my car an hour ago,” said Dean. He glanced over his shoulder, both cocky and questioning. “So, you tell me, Ace. This feel over to you?”

No, Sir. It did not.

“I think I like this date thing,” I replied.

Happy Birthday, Sam Winchester.


End file.
